The Alchemy of Noise

by Lorraine Devon Wilke

  Tick, tick. “No. It’s mine. Bought and paid for.”

  “Do you have the receipts?”

  “With me . . . in the car? No.”

  “Where are you going with all this . . . sound equipment?”

  Sidonie finally sat forward, glaring at the questioner. “What is the problem, officer?”

  The officer abruptly leaned in. “If I want to hear from you, ma’am, I’ll ask. Until then, sit back and keep your mouth shut!” he snapped.

  Before she could react, Chris gave her a fierce look: don’t say another word.

  The officer stepped back from the driver’s side door. “Get out of the car, sir.”

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Chris opened the door slowly and stepped out. Sidonie shook her head in helpless frustration as the officer spun Chris around and slammed him spread-eagled against the side of the Jeep.

  The second officer held his flashlight on Sidonie’s face; she kept her eyes down.

  After Chris was frisked, roughly, the officer snapped, “Open the back of the vehicle.”

  “It’s locked. The keys are in the car.”

  “Then get the keys.”

  Chris walked to the door and carefully reached in; both officers were taut with attention, hands poised on their guns. Sidonie remained frozen in her seat. Chris took the keys and moved slowly to the back of the Jeep.

  The second officer held his gaze on Sidonie as he shined his flashlight on the glove box. “You got a pipe in there?”

  She looked at him incredulously—why on earth would there be a pipe in the glove box?—her first thought being a sink pipe. Then it struck her. He meant crack pipe. Dear God . . . “No, absolutely not!” She suddenly hoped that was true.

  “Open it.”

  She wondered if this was allowed, but when she turned to look at Chris, he was occupied with his own interaction. She opened the glove box; the officer reached in and rifled around. Nothing but a small first aid kit, some old CDs, and a flashlight.

  “Close it.”

  She responded like a trained dog, the knot in her stomach grown exponential to her rage.

  With the back hatch now opened, the first officer kept Chris in his sights while he ferreted through the speakers and cable bags inside. “And whose equipment is all this?”

  “Again, mine.” Chris’s throat was tight, his mind blank. Breathe, stay contained.

  “You must be rich, to have all this equipment . . . though not many rich assholes would drive a piece of shit like this. Are you sure you didn’t lift this stuff from a club or the back of somebody’s garage?”

  “I’m sure.” His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow.

  “Why do you have all this? Seems like a lot more than your average boom box or ghetto blaster or whatever you people are monkeying around with these days.”

  Tick, tick, tick. “I’m a sound engineer.” His voice was flat, no affect, nothing to trigger response.

  “Is that right? I didn’t think guys like you worked that end of the business. Aren’t you usually the ones out front playing the blues or doing that Snoop Doggy Dog shit?”

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Sidonie’s eyes filled with tears, overwhelmed.

  At Chris’s silence, the officer continued: “Okay, so you’re not a hip-hopper. Good for you. Maybe you got better taste than the rest of them. Where is it you do this sound engineering?”

  “At The Church. I’m the sound manager there. The woman in the car is my boss. I’m taking her home because her car broke down. I own two vans for my company, Sound Alchemy, but they’re both out on private jobs, which is why I’m using my personal vehicle. It’s been in storage, which is why it’s dirty at the moment.”

  “Okay, okay, we’re gettin’ the whole life story here!” He turned to his partner and chortled. He stepped around Chris and walked to the passenger side, leaned in toward Sidonie. “Now, you seem like a nice girl. If you can corroborate Lionel Richie’s story here, you’ll both be on your way.”

  His partner again shone the light in her face. “This guy works for you at The Church?”

  “Yes.” She kept her eyes fixed forward.

  A pause.

  “All right then!” the first officer declared. “We’re good to go! Now take your boss straight home, Lionel, and no funny stuff. We don’t want any sexual harassment calls coming in later . . . you know how those ‘me too’ gals can be. Have a lovely rest of your evening.”

  They sauntered back to the squad car and pulled slowly out and away.

  TWENTY-THREE

  IT WASN’T UNTIL CHRIS WAS PARKED IN FRONT OF SIDONIE’S house that either spoke. As she leaned against the door, still shaking, he struggled to quell the rage that had swept in during the encounter. The corner streetlamp flooded the interior of the Jeep, making them both appear as wan and jaundiced as they felt.

  “Sidonie, damn . . . I am so sorry . . . I—”

  “Don’t. Don’t dare apologize,” she said firmly. “That was so not on you.”

  “But I’m used to that shit. You’re not.”

  Which twisted her, that reality; that he was used to it. She wanted to comfort him. “Would you like to come up for a while? I could make you a cup of tea or something to eat.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to. I want to end this horrible evening with something nice.”

  So he did. For the first time, he came up to her house. Sidonie made tea, toast, and a nice spinach and mushroom omelet. They sat in the living room—he, on the couch; she, on the rug at the side of the scrubby coffee table—and ate without conversation, finding familiar comfort in their silence.

  Finished, Chris leaned back, hands on his stomach. “So good, thank you. And you say Patsy’s the chef?”

  Sidonie laughed. “If you thought that was good, she’d slay you. A regular culinary wizard.”

  “Nice way to feel about your partner.” He looked around. “I like your place. It’s . . . tasteful.”

  She had to smile, flashing on Patsy’s withering critique of her barren quarters. “Interesting way to put it. I keep meaning to do more, but never get around to it.”

  “Hey, I’m bunking in my childhood bedroom at thirty-four.” He laughed.

  “But that’s temporary. Has to lessen the sting.”

  “Yeah, I just need to carve out some time to find a place.”

  “Then I’m sorry we’ve made your schedule so demanding. I’m sure it would be easier if you didn’t have to drive down to Hyde Park every night. That’s a slog.”

  “But I do get home-cooked meals,” he said, grinning. “As long as my sister’s not around too much, it’s a peaceful little break.”

  “Tell me about your sister. Why are you guys so at odds . . . or whatever it is that happens?”

  Chris thought back to the melee of the morning, which now seemed days ago. Vanessa sent a text apologizing for “having my latest meltdown at your expense,” and, as always, Chris let her off the hook. But the cycle was repetitive, making the gaps between them larger each go-around.

  “Vanessa’s a force of nature. That’s a trite phrase, but with her it’s true. She’s fierce, with a big heart, a huge heart, but sometimes her ‘full-body immersion in the sea of empathy,’ as my brother-in-law puts it, is tough on us mere mortals. But she’s always been that way. Passionate, committed, but defensive, so defensive—and really easy to set off. Maybe it’s being the youngest—and a girl—in a family of two boys. Maybe it’s that both my parents had a sort of ‘live and let live’ philosophy she bumped up against, but there’s something in her DNA. Built for battle.”

  “You said she has two kids. Has that softened her any?”

  “Some. She has her moments. She can laugh and enjoy herself with them. She’s a good mom. It’s more that everything with her is BIG. Everything is all-in. My dad used to say, ‘Pick your battles,’ but everything is a battle with her, whether it’s BLM stuff or the thirdgrade bake sale. I get ti
red of it, personally. I think Hermes does too, which is probably why she’s at the house these days.”

  “Hermes is her husband, right? The studio guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s not like that?”

  “No.” Chris smiled thinking about his brother-in-law. “Hermes is the mellowest person I know. When he and Vanessa got together, I hoped some of his mellow might rub off on her, but I think the opposite happened—her fierce burned him out.”

  “That’s too bad. It sounds like you like him.”

  “I do. Lots of reasons why. He kind of reminds me of my dad.”

  “Does he? What’s your dad like?”

  Chris sat up and drained the last of his tea. “My dad died a few years back. He and my older brother, Jefferson, were killed in a car accident not long after I graduated from college.”

  Sidonie’s responsive shock was both because the gravity of his statement conflicted with the matter-of-fact way in which he said it, and because she’d never known anyone who’d suffered such a profound tragedy. “God . . . Chris . . . I am so sorry. How devastating, especially at that particular moment of your life.”

  His face clouded, as it always did when he thought of them. “Pretty much changed me from there on.”

  “How could it not?”

  “Yeah . . .” He sat in stillness for a moment. “Made me more serious. Like it was all on me to do right by the family—the only man left, that sort of thing. I lost some of my humor, my ability to enjoy life. I wish I could downplay it, but it was brutal. Still is.”

  “You can’t downplay something like that. It’s as shattering as it gets.”

  “I idolized my brother. He was five years older, literally my best friend. He was in med school at the time, really smart. I always wanted to impress him, to be like him—hell, that old Jeep was his. It’s the only reason I keep it around. And my dad was . . . well, he was just a good guy. A tough guy, for sure. A hard worker, completely honest about the bullshit of life, but always said he felt lucky for everything he had, especially all of us.”

  “What did he do?” she asked gently.

  “He was a landscaper. He and my mom met when they were both on scholarship at the University of Chicago working their way through school. He was originally an assistant to the groundskeeper, then took some courses in landscape design and found his calling. He took over the department when his boss retired and ended up being there the rest of his life. He loved the job, loved working near my mom, and we kids got tuition benefits, so it was a good deal all around. He also liked keeping us close, said it made him less afraid about us being out in the world.”

  Sidonie felt the weight of his memory with its tentacled arms of grief. She was struck by the fact that she could say nothing as moving or loving about her own father, who was alive, up the road, and hadn’t shown interest in her in years. “He sounds pretty special.”

  “He was. He was that strong father figure who demanded we be strong, but taught us how to find our equilibrium too. Said being a black man in America meant knowing when to pause, when to protect yourself, when to hold ground, and when to kick ass. But he always said to breathe first. I have to remind myself of that pretty much every day. Like tonight.”

  “Yeah . . . lots of breathing tonight.” She got up to pour more hot water in his cup.

  His eyes followed her. “Have you ever lost anyone?”

  “Not like you. Three of my grandparents are gone, but that’s not the same. I guess the closest I got was losing my baby.”

  “Damn, Sidonie, I didn’t know you lost a child!”

  “It was a pregnancy. I was five months along, everything was fine, then one day I started bleeding and didn’t stop until I wasn’t pregnant anymore. It was about a year before my divorce.”

  “That had to be tough.”

  “It was. For a long time. It was a little girl.” She sat back down on the carpet, somber. “But the truth was, I was conflicted about being pregnant. I’d just started building the event business at the club and was really busy, really pushing myself, and things with Theo were already dysfunctional. I wasn’t convinced bringing a baby into that mix was a good idea. But things slowly evolved; I started getting all happy about it, then, boom, she was gone. Theo acted devastated, but I didn’t buy it. I think it was just an excuse for him to get high. That was pretty much the beginning of the end for us.” She looked at him with a woeful smile. “And that’s my sad story.”

  “We all get our sorrows, as my mom says. Hopefully you can try again someday—I mean, if you wanted to and had the right situation.” Awkward, he got up and stretched.

  But she was touched. “Maybe . . . we’ll see. Life is too hard to predict. I don’t even try anymore.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” He sat back down on the couch, restless, though not sure why. He was comfortable being there—in her house, with her—but a certain tension had descended.

  She could feel the chemical shifts and changes, too, subtle and nuanced, poignant, in a way. She felt tenderness for him, protectiveness, which was something she’d never felt for a man before. It was unsettling.

  “So what was that about tonight, with the cops?” she asked. “Just harassment?”

  “Basically. They saw a black guy in a dirty old Jeep filled with equipment and decided to be assholes. Maybe something to shake up a dull night. Who knows?”

  “They can just do that, for no reason?” Her face conveyed skepticism.

  Chris looked at her sharply. His impulse was to be frank. On the other hand, easy conversation had its appeal. He opted for middle ground.

  “It happens, Sidonie. Most of the time I let it roll off, don’t give it too much energy, other times I want to push my fist through a wall, like you said. Maybe even through some motherfucker’s face.” He smiled grimly. “That’s when I feel Vanessa boiling up in me.”

  She remained pensive. The events of the night had been a regretful revelation. “I don’t know how you deal with it. That drunk at the coffee shop was bad enough, but tonight I felt like I was going to explode, sitting there, not moving, not responding, while they acted like bullies with guns. If I felt like that, how did you stay so calm?”

  “Practice. Lots of practice. I stay calm because they are bullies with guns and they can do whatever they want, whenever they want, in a system designed to protect them. I stay calm because I want to stay alive.”

  “Well, that’s a pretty shitty way to feel about the police, isn’t it? Being scared of the people who are supposed to protect you?”

  Again he looked at her, trying to assess the depth of her naïveté. “Of course it is, Sidonie. But it’s a fact of life for men like me.”

  “Black men?”

  “Yes, men of color. Women of color. I’m not saying all cops are like that, but too many of them are. And I’m the only one who can protect me, protect my body, protect my life. You learn that fast and early if you don’t want to become another statistic.”

  “I understand, but—”

  “You can’t understand.”

  “I’m just saying if that happened to me all the time, I don’t think I could keep my cool. I’m saying I admire that about you. I’ve never been stopped for anything but speeding or making a wrong turn—”

  “You’re a pretty white blonde woman driving a nice car,” he remarked dryly.

  She wasn’t sure how to translate the retort. “I realize that, obviously. I am aware of what goes on out there—how can anyone not be? —but I guess I haven’t been paying enough attention, because I honestly thought things were . . . I don’t know . . . better these days. At least in this part of town.”

  He cocked his head. “‘This part of town’?”

  She caught the sensitivity breach. “I just mean a part of town that’s less crime-ridden, more affluent, more—”

  “White?”

  Sidonie turned to him sharply. “No! I don’t mean that. I mean . . . well, maybe it is more white, but what I mean
is, it’s an area with lots of open-minded people: artists, liberals, progressives . . .” She stopped, realizing the inefficacy of her explanation. “I can’t really address it, can I? It’s not my world. I don’t experience what you do.”

  “You can’t, Sidonie.” He got up to put his dishes in the sink.

  “There are different rules for white and black America, no matter what part of town you’re in or who you are. You may know that intellectually, but your side doesn’t get how that translates in real life on our side of the divide. You caught a glimpse of that tonight.”

  She suddenly felt petulant. “Well, that’s pathetic. Shouldn’t we be past all that by now?”

  He came back to the living room and sat next to her on the floor. “You keep saying things like that, and, I don’t mean to insult you, but you sound so naïve. Of course we should! But we’re not. Not even close. And I gotta face the world that is. You gotta face the world that is. My sister fights to change the world that is.”

  She flopped back on the carpet, staring up at the ceiling, talked out and exhausted. He lay down inches from her, their hands almost touching, both suddenly aware of proximity. In that moment, whatever ease had been between them evaporated, replaced by something jarring and keen. A need, a pull. She was confused; he was curious. They were so close there was heat, and decisions had to be made, right then, one way or another.

  A million contradictory thoughts rolled through her mind: What’s happening right now? This is a bad idea . . . isn’t it? But we could both use some tenderness after the night we’ve had. He is so sweet but all wrong for me, for so many reasons. But when he looks at me, I feel . . . This could jeopardize my job. I’ve never known a man like him. Do I really want to get into “the complications of all that”? I want him to touch me.

  His thoughts rattled in parallel confusion: This is crazy. What am I thinking? This could jeopardize the job. Complicating my life right now is not a smart move. She’s so beautiful. I want some warmth after the night we’ve had. Is it the best idea to get involved with a white woman . . . and my boss? I don’t have time to be responsible for a relationship and this can’t be a booty call. I just want to touch her.